A plea from the nose
Oh dear stranger,
co-inhabitant of bus seats and office chairs,
I beg you —
not in judgment,
but in self-preserving prayer —
please,
discover the ancient magic
of soap and water.
Let not your scent announce your presence
before your footsteps do.
Let not the air curl back from you
like it’s trying to escape.
The world is full of marvels:
musk, citrus, eucalyptus dreams,
deodorants that whisper blessings
on even the longest summer day.
There are potions for this.
Affordable spells in roll-on form.
Shampoo that sings in lavender tones.
Let them love you.
Because friend,
when your body becomes an assault
on the gentle innocence of air,
we all suffer.
The passengers suffer.
The elevator weeps.
The breeze turns traitor.
No one asks for perfume.
Just mercy.
So please,
cleanse thyself,
out of love for the human nose,
and all those who dare
to stand too near.
